The Other Side of Life

by Andy Kutler

  And now here was the educated and refined Thomas Jefferson Townes, close chums with the rough and unpolished Tyler Whitaker. Two men whose only commonality seemed to be the single gold bars that adorned their shoulder epaulets. But even those had been earned far differently. Two mirror opposites.

  Just like me and Ethan.

  TJ looked at him. “Sir, a question if I might?”

  “TJ, we both wear lieutenant bars, just different colors. When it’s just us and we’re having a drink, my name is Cal.”

  “Well, Cal, a question, and I mean you no offense.”

  “Uh oh,” laughed Whitaker.

  “Hmmm,” said Cal wryly, “I wonder what this will be about.” He held out the flat of his palm. “Go ahead TJ, you have the floor.”

  “Well, sir­—Cal—I understand your attachment to Virginia. I really do. I love Wisconsin. My family is there, and has been for nearly forty years. But I can’t fathom the notion of wanting to leave, or secede from, the United States. I know your kin fought the British. Hell, they probably shared a rampart at some point with my kin. That’s not ancient history. We’re not talking Romans and Carthaginians. We’re talking about eighty years ago, when we won our freedom. Our independence. How can you want to walk away from that?”

  “I don’t, TJ. My folks don’t want to, and Emily’s family doesn’t want to. Her great-grandfather was one of the first Continentals. There are quite a few Virginians who are unenthusiastic about leaving; it’s the hotheads in Richmond that are driving the herd. And those drums of war you’re hearing are mostly from South Carolina and Georgia.”

  “But everyone says Virginia will secede.”

  “Yes, she will.”

  “Do you think she should?”

  They were all looking at him intently.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Malarkey,” challenged Ethan.

  Cal frowned at him but Ethan was right. And there was no cause for evasiveness here. These were his friends. His only friends, if he was being honest. They weren’t judging him, just asking for candor. He owed them that.

  He leaned over, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the fire. “Yes, I suppose it is time for Virginia to leave. Six months ago, I might have said differently, but Mr. Lincoln and South Carolina aim to fight, and Virginia sits between the two. She’ll have to choose sides.”

  “And once she decides,” Whitaker said carefully, “you’ll go with her.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  The admission muted the group. Cal didn’t even have to look up to know one man’s eyes were on him. He sighed. “What’s on your mind, TJ?”

  “Sir, again, no disrespect—”

  “Yes, yes. Commence firing, Lieutenant.”

  “Do you believe slavery is right?”

  “TJ, there has never been a single slave in the Garrity family. Not one. Couldn’t afford them anyway, but my parents and grandparents, that isn’t the sort of people they were. And I hope it’s not the kind of man I am either. Emily’s family does have slaves, mostly house servants and the like. There is a moral point to your question and I don’t disagree with it. The institution is wrong. But there is a practical point too. The Southern economy will collapse without it. That is a fact. The South is agricultural, it doesn’t have the factories and industry you have in the North. And for a lot of folks in the South, they see a collapse as precisely what most Northerners want. They believe that the Northern concern for the welfare of the Negro is a masquerade, and behind all of that self-righteousness, all they care about are their own ledgers and coffers.”

  TJ contemplated this. “So you don’t see a peaceful solution to this?”

  Cal shook his head. “No, I don’t. I think both sides are dug in pretty hard. The South believes it is fighting for its survival. Mr. Lincoln and his followers believe they have the moral high ground, and they have the power of this,” he said, tapping his holstered Colt. “They think as long as they have the Army, the South will fold faster than a blind man in a poker game.”

  Whitaker grunted. “Them folks in Washington sure seem quick to want to use us. Like my Pa says, when you have a hammer, every problem looks like a nail.”

  But it won’t be a nail, Whit. It will be another hammer.

  “What about you, Captain?” asked TJ. “Where do you see yourself in this?”

  Ethan shrugged. “Depends what happens to the regiment. They might send us all back east. More likely, they’ll break us up. Got to keep some presence out here. Gaylord thinks the officers may get spread out throughout the Army, help train all the volunteers. Maybe even lead some of those new regiments.”

  “A regiment of volunteers?” TJ asked, wrinkling his nose. “Who’d want command of that?”

  “Get used to it,” said Cal. “Massachusetts laborers and Alabama dirt farmers. That’s who’ll be fighting this war. Give me a company of regulars over a regiment of volunteers, hell, a brigade of volunteers, any day.”

  Ethan held back a smile. “So does that mean you’ll turn down your governor’s offer? I presume a Virginia volunteer has as little use as a Wisconsin volunteer.”

  “Now don’t go insulting a Virginia man like that,” laughed Cal.

  “Suppose you go,” TJ persisted, “and say this is over in a year. What will you do then?”

  Cal gave him a wink. “You’re assuming the Federal side prevails?”

  TJ scoffed. “You can’t be serious?”

  Whitaker sat up. “Captain Rudman told me and TJ the other day that the Army could put down a rebellion in a month. That a proper show of force will have those South Carolina boys running back to Charleston. What do you think, Cal?”

  He started to respond, but Ethan spoke first. “Tick Harvey is one of those South Carolina boys. Can you see him running from any fight? Besides, from what I can see, this army isn’t ready for that fight yet. It’s too scattered and too disorganized, and the rest of the Army ain’t nearly in the shape the Second Dragoons is.”

  Cal raised an eyebrow. Ethan had given this more thought than he had let on.

  “Okay, so we wait six months, hell, a year, to mobilize. Between the Regulars and the volunteers—seventy-five thousand, I hear—how long can the South stand up to that?

  Cal drained his cup. “You forget one thing, Whit. This war will not be fought anywhere near the Whitaker farm in New Hampshire. If Lincoln is going to put down a rebellion, he’ll have to send the army south. And they’ll be led by some very capable men.”

  Ethan looked right at him. “Yes, they will be.” He tossed the rest of his liquor into the fire, the alcohol burn producing a bright flame. “But for now, let’s keep our focus on this company and this patrol. You boys best return to your platoons, get some sleep. We’ll move out at sunrise.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Zeus was faster than him, no doubt. Always had been. The dog had to have been ancient by now, considering his father gave him the pup for his tenth birthday. But as Cal chased after the stout retriever through the dense forest, the distance between the two seemed to lengthen, the dog’s barking growing more distant and faint. At last Cal emerged from the tree line, out of breath, the house within a stone’s throw. Cal took a moment to admire the home, the pride washing over him. He knew the craftsmanship was wanting. The roof needed more work, the door frames more leveling. But it was their house. And it was what was inside the house that gave him such anticipation. She was there, with the children, waiting for him to return.

  He felt a soft tap on his shoulder. Then another.

  This time a gentle shake followed by a sharp whisper. “Sir!”

  Cal awakened with a start and instinctively reached for his sidearm. “What is it?”

  A lantern was raised and he could see it was Bruer and Ellerbee, both from 2nd Platoon. TJ’s men.

  “Sorry to wake you, Lieutenant,” said Bruer, “but we have big problem.”

  “What is it?” He tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes.

  �
��It’s Dukes,” said Ellerbee. “He left. Stole out and somehow got a horse past the pickets.”

  “Damn it,” swore Cal, sitting up and reaching for his boots. He pulled them on and climbed to his feet.

  Leland Dukes was a ten-year veteran. He had made sergeant twice as a dragoon, losing his stripes for drunkenness or other minor infractions. But he was also a seasoned Indian fighter, and Cal knew having a hard man like that in TJ’s platoon gave Ethan some comfort. Dukes’ flight was unsurprising, the man having made no secret of his desire to return home to Georgia.

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “Less than one hour,” replied Bruer, in his guttural Bavarian accent. Hans Bruer was one of the older men in the company, and Cal figured he had to be in his late forties. “You know the captain will find him, Sir. He shoot him for sure.”

  “He won’t shoot him. But he’ll make sure the Army puts him to hard labor somewhere. Where do you think he headed?”

  Jess Ellerbee was another Georgian. He and Dukes had enlisted together when the 2nd Dragoons were fighting Comanches in Texas. “Well, Sir,” he said, tugging on his beard, “normally I’d say northeast as the crow would fly. But we’re so close to the border, I think he may have headed south.”

  “South? Nothing but trouble down there.”

  “Nein, Ellerbee is correct. Dukes is more afraid of the captain than he is Mexican Army. He knows we can’t cross the border chasing him.”

  “Son of a bitch. Bruer, you know this area pretty well. Think you can find him before he crosses?”

  “Ja. Dukes is hell of a trooper, but he no find his way from barracks to the latrine.”

  “Okay, I’m going with you. Let’s get saddled up. Ellerbee, you stay here.”

  “What do I tell the captain?”

  There was no keeping this from Ethan. Before first light, TJ would immediately report the missing man from his platoon, rightfully so.

  “Don’t tell him a word. You don’t know anything.”

  “What are you going to tell the captain?”

  “I have no idea.”

  ***

  Ethan looked around, his hands on his hips. “Where the hell is Cal?” he asked.

  “Haven’t seen him yet,” yawned Whitaker.

  The company was hurriedly breaking down the campsite. Horses were saddled, bedrolls and tent halves tied up, and pots of hot coffee passed around. Sunrise was still an hour away, but the soldiers had spent enough time in this environment to sense when a storm was threatening.

  Ethan turned to his bugler. “Kirch, find him, we need to stay ahead of this weather.”

  “Yes, Sir!”

  TJ approached, his face clouded with concern. He managed to keep his voice low despite his angst. “Ethan, I’ve got two men missing. Sergeant Bruer, one of my section leaders, and Corporal Dukes.”

  Ethan wrinkled his nose. He knew both men and they were an unlikely pair. Dukes deserting he almost expected, but Bruer would never even consider the thought.

  “Dukes has had one foot out of New Mexico for a month now,” TJ said, echoing his own thoughts. “But Bruer—”

  “I know,” Ethan said, agitated. “Has anyone seen them? Know where they went?”

  TJ shook his head. “And I asked the entire platoon.”

  Ethan cursed. In the darkness they had not seen Sergeant Travers approach. He cleared his throat. “Dukes and Ellerbee have been thick as thieves since they were fighting redskins on the panhandle.”

  Ethan gave Travers a stern look. “Go have a talk with Ellerbee.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Travers returned a few minutes later, rubbing the back of his gloved right hand. Ethan thought he could see specks of blood on the knuckles, but ignored that for the moment.

  “Ellerbee said Bruer and Lieutenant Garrity rode out three hours ago, heading due south. They went after Dukes.”

  Ethan felt his face grow warm. “Find them. We’ll continue southwest, you can link up with us on the Platte. Take Terrell with you.”

  “Begging your pardon, Sir, but you’ll need the scout more than I will. If Dukes headed for the border, I’ll catch up with them right quick.”

  “Go.”

  “Yes, Sir,” said Travers, relieved the darkness was concealing the glee that was surely in his eyes. He climbed on his stallion and whipped him into a hard gallop, disappearing into the pre-dawn twilight.

  TJ turned to Ethan. “One man?”

  “He’s enough.”

  ***

  It was morning now and several hours had passed since Cal and Bruer had left the camp. The dawn had brought a steady rain that had just started to taper off into a hard drizzle. The two men approached a creek that on most days was barely ankle deep, especially during the dry season. But with the recent rains, the creek was swollen now and the current unusually strong. They were both adept horsemen though, and plunged into the creek to begin their ford, their boots and stirrups dipping below the surface.

  They were nearly halfway across but still moved cautiously, allowing the horses to find sure footing.

  “How far until the border, Sergeant?”

  “No more than one mile, Lieutenant. I think it is just over that ridge,” said Bruer, gesturing to the southeast.

  “That would be incorrect, señor.”

  They checked their horses, startled by the unfamiliar, accented voice that carried across the creek. The two dragoons scanned the dense underbrush that lined the far side of the creek, their hands instinctively moving to their holsters.

  A rider emerged, the stock of a double-barreled shotgun resting on his hip. He was in a blue greatcoat, bright and crisp, with the well-known design and red trim of the Mexican Army. Despite the resplendent coat, the dark-skinned man was disheveled and unshaven, his uncombed, oily hair hanging down from underneath his wide-brimmed hat.

  “You crossed the border many minutes ago,” the man continued in passable English. “Welcome to Mexico,” he said, hoisting the weapon a few inches in the air as a mock salute.

  The menace in his voice was unambiguous. Cal considered unfastening his holster but his hand froze as several more uniformed riders, two dozen perhaps, emerged from the far bank and slowly encircled the two Americans. Their leader rode in closer, stopping at the water’s edge.

  Cal saw Bruer’s arm slowly drop to his side.

  “Easy, Hans,” he warned in a soft voice, barely audible above the steady beat of raindrops pelting the creek. “You wouldn’t make it to the second bullet.”

  Cal pushed his horse forward in the water, raising his voice above the rain.

  “I am First Lieutenant Calvin Garrity, Second Regiment of Dragoons, United States Army. We are looking for a lost man. We have no intention of entering your country, and my sergeant here assures me we have not.”

  “And I have twenty men here who assure me you have. I myself was born in a village not far from here. Surely you do not accuse me of lies? Or worse, being a norteamericano?”

  That brought laughter from a handful of his men. They may not have understood the English words, but they understood the insult.

  Bruer cleared his throat. He spoke to Cal but his eyes were fixed on the Mexican. “Lieutenant, I know this ground very well. Scouted for Major Greene and his engineers in fifty-nine. They made survey maps here. We are standing on American soil.”

  The leader ignored Bruer, leveling his shotgun at both men. “I cannot permit you to have weapons in our country. You will surrender them at once.”

  He gave a nod to his men and two of them dismounted and moved to the Americans, removing their carbines, pistols and even their sabers.

  “Bueno. Now that we have that matter settled, I am Capitán Ramon Veras. You are under arrest for unlawfully entering the sovereign nation of Mexico. You have done so with weapons and without my government’s permission. You will come with us.”

  Bruer moved his horse closer to Cal. “Sir, we are at least one mile from the border—”


  “And you,” Veras continued, turning the shotgun on Bruer. “Do not speak again. One more word will be your last.”

  Bruer looked at Cal, who gave him a firm nod.

  Cal turned back to the Mexican.

  “Captain Veras, I do not believe for one second we are in Mexico. On the contrary, you and your men have clearly crossed into the United States. Whoever is at fault, I think we can agree that no further escalation is necessary, nor do either of us wish to risk an incident between our two governments.”

  The man laughed, showing a row of stained brown teeth.

  “Oh, Teniente. I think your government has more concerns at the moment than two missing soldiers who probably came into our country to steal from our villages and have their way with our women. And our young girls.”

  Bruer spat on the ground. “Schwein. Lieutenant, I have old surveying map in my saddlebag. This is not—”

  Even the slickness of the rain-soaked weapon didn’t slow Veras as he jerked the barrel toward Bruer and pulled the trigger in a single motion. The double-barreled blast echoed across the ravine, the solid shot tearing a massive hole in Bruer’s chest. The force of the blow knocked the old German from his saddle and sent him tumbling into the water.

  “You bastard!” Cal screamed. He leapt off his horse and waded to where Bruer was floating, face down, the water darkening around him. He turned him over, a corpse now, his chest a mess of bone and blood. Cal glared at the Mexican. “He was reaching for a map!”

  The Mexican smiled, amused, and wagged a finger. “Ah, but I warned him those would be his last words. And I certainly don’t have any interest in a map that was made by men who have been re-making maps to their desires since they first set foot on this land. Our land. Now, on your horse, señor.”